


Le Morte d'Alfor

by shitpilot (RazzleDazzle)



Series: The Prince and His Champion [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canon-Typical Violence, Knight Keith, Lance and Allura are siblings, M/M, Prince Lance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzleDazzle/pseuds/shitpilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kingdom of Altea has already been rocked by the ravages of war. Sir Keith, a Knight of the realm, knows his responsibilities in the aftermath. But with the ever-present threat of the Galran Empire yet lurking beyond their borders, and problems popping up like a hydra's heads, it all might be more than he bargained for.</p>
<p>Or: how to protect your prince when you're bad at feelings and even worse at chivalry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Morte d'Alfor

**Author's Note:**

> my pal [@maixiem](http://www.maixiem.tumblr.com) inspired me with [her fanart](http://maixiem.tumblr.com/post/149730968054/prince-lance-and-his-knight-keith-featuring-my) for medieval prince lance and knight keith so ofc it had to be done. characters will be added as they appear. rating subject to potential change for violence + nsfw! 
> 
> an introduction to set the scene. updating scene-based installments weekly, give or take a few days.

Masterfully wrought steel bites into the old wood of the shopkeeper’s counter. A red jewel glints from the dagger’s hilt; its menace matches the displeasure in the midnight eyes of its owner. “Where is he.”

“Where is whom, Sir Knight?” asks Pidge, proprietor of the shop and longtime accomplice of his quarry. The round spectacles covering her face almost mask the mischief behind her innocent expression. Keith doesn’t waver. He knows better.

“I’ll ask only once more. _Where is he?_ ”

“Once more and yet again, for I know many a ‘he’. In fact, there’s one in front of me, though a good deal less tolerable than most.”

“His _Highness_ ,” he snaps, gauntleted fist thudding next to his knife. She startles with a twitch, but holds his glare evenly. In a quieter voice, one that betrays his worry, he adds: “Lance.”

She yanks the dagger from the counter with ease, its heft familiar both in her hand and the way she points it at him. “Don’t you _ever_ threaten me with my own weapon again.” She narrows her eyes. His prized knife is dropped into his hand. “The smithy giveth, and the smithy taketh away.”

He nods his head briefly in acknowledgement as well as apology. “About Lance—”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Pidge goes back to puttering about behind the counter.

“‘Sure he’s—’” Keith’s frustration gets the better of him. “The kingdom is on the brink of war! It’s not _safe_ —-”

“He can take care of himself, can’t he?” It sounds, to his ears, like an accusation; but not one originating from Pidge herself. Her voice is muffled by the barrel she’s digging through. “He is no helpless damsel, regardless of what takes place in your fantasies.” Keith splutters, denials as equally quick as unheard. Emerging from the barrel, she shakes a pipe at him. “Stop treating him thus, lest you push him to do something truly foolish.”

“You don’t think that haring off through the city and beyond is foolish?! Not to mention the company he keeps, thieves and all kinds of unsavory sort? Or does he even tell you what he does while you harbor him from those who would keep him out of harm’s way?!”

“It’s hardly my place to speculate about what the prince does with his days,” she evades, dropping a loose sack of metal scraps between them. It clangs unpleasantly in his ears. Pidge smiles.

A disgruntled sigh creaks the chainmail covering his shoulders. He lets his head fall back to glare at the soot trails along the ceiling. After a moment of circling the same dilemma, Keith decides: to hell with it. Obviously, he’s had little success in this alone. Pidge must sense the change, for she looks back up at him from her tools.

“Has he at least told you?” he asks seriously.

“Told me what?”

The honest confusion on her face stirs discomfort deep in his gut. But as he opens the grim set of his mouth, none other than His Highness himself slides through the curtain that closes off the back room.

Head twisted and grinning at whatever was following him, breathing heavily as if he’d been running for some time—- Lance looks no less pristine after exerting himself all day. A winded flush warms his cheeks, but not a wrinkle can be found on his clothes. Keith can’t help but blink at him in awe. He looks mussed, but stylishly so: hair artfully ruffled, tunic loosened just barely to reveal the tempting throb of pulse at his neck. Laughter, careless and bright and _loud_ shatters the gravity between them.

“Hah, Pidge, you should have _seen_ —-” the prince begins, bracing a hand against the wall as he catches his breath.

That, of course, stops the moment he sets eyes on Keith.

His face immediately falls, curdling into something petulant and grumpy. “Augh, not _Keith_ ,” he mutters under his breath. Throwing his broad shoulders back, he jabs a finger accusingly at the knight. Keith’s returning stare lingers on the stretch of muscle and along the smooth lines of his chest as he forces it back to rival Lance’s.

“What are you doing here? Shiro said _he_ was to be on duty today.”

Keith’s eye twitches. “Sir Shirogane took ill, so Her Highness elected to stay in the castle. She asked me to take over his day’s duties instead.”

Before he can blink, Lance’s defensive posture drops and genuine concern creases his brow. “Ill? What’s wrong?”

Even as a rush of affection for the prince pulses in his chest, his jaw clenches. “He’ll be fine. He just needed further rest.”

Lance nods, reading the truth behind Keith’s careful words. Only a handful of the royal household know of Shiro’s debilitating, traumatic episodes, and they keep it that way for his sake. The Altean people see Sir Shirogane as a war hero and defender of innocents. They laud his bravery and perseverance; the loss of his sword-arm did not mean the loss of his value to the kingdom. But tales of his night terrors and unraveling sanity after his return from captivity might give false credence to rumors circulating about his long, painful time as a prisoner of war. The royal family hopes to protect him from that, as does Keith. His brother has suffered enough.

When Lance opens his mouth to respond—-his manner forgetting some of its hostility—-the front door flies open, making Pidge jump and Keith flinch towards Lance protectively.

The urge doesn’t dissipate when Nyma falls gracefully forward, arms thrown around Lance’s shoulders from behind. Keith feels her familiarity like a hit to the helm, but refuses to let it show. Much.

“Lance,” she laughs, blonde hair catching the window’s light in a sunny halo. “You didn’t wait for me!” She casts a look around the room, and though aware of the tension, ignores it.

“It was a race,” he laughs back. “How, otherwise, would I win?”

“And you must win. I would hate to be forced to deny you your prize.” Her smug smile accompanies a playful tug at his tunic.

Keith swallows past the burning in his throat. He coughs, and Lance’s eyes meet his. It’s as if he forgot Keith was there, forgot he was watching. His brown hand still holds Nyma’s where it rests against his chest.

Suddenly, he has to leave. He’s found his charge, safe and reasonably sound. He may not trust Nyma, but he does have faith in Pidge; the irritated look she’s shooting the prince alone eases some of the strangle-hold in his chest.

“Be back on palace grounds at least an hour before sundown,” he says gruffly, backing up. He bows to Lance, then more shallowly to Pidge. “Try not to be late.”

“A prince is never late,” Lance insists as he reaches the door, a final attempt to bait him. Keith pauses. He doesn’t look back.

“Then, perhaps, try to be early.” He lets the shop door close behind him.

The ride back to the castle is too short, and too quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> title is a play off of Malory's novel about the Knights of the Round Table. 
> 
> read or reblog on tumblr [here](http://shitpilot.tumblr.com/post/149774295465/my-pal-maixiem-posted-this-amazing-art-last-night)! comments, speculation, and constructive criticism welcome. thanks.


End file.
